Kemba Struggles With the Concept — “Relax”

The smallest of the AKC’s retrievers, the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever is intelligent, affectionate, and eager to please. Play fetch with a tireless Toller until your right arm falls off, and he will ask you to throw left-handed.                                         — American Kennel Club

One of my absolute favorite things about Kemba’s personality is that he’s always up for anything I want to do.  I grab the car

keys, and Kemba springs up: YAY!  Let’s go for a ride!  I grab his leash, and Kemba’s at the door:  YAY!  Let’s walk . . . anywhere!  I grab the chuck-it and a tennis ball, and the tail goes wagging with glee:  YAY!  Let’s play some fetch!

The only problem is when that winning desire to please collides with his endless appetite for exercise.

If he’s on the floor and I get down with him for a snuggle, he takes this to mean, “Let’s wrestle, and get wild!”

If I stroke his gorgeous red coat while I watch a Jets game (1st pre-season game against Falcons in 3 days!), he’ll sit for, oh, maybe two seconds, then jump off the couch, grab a ball, and expect me to throw.

But it’s on the beach, out here in Amagansett, where we’re spending the summer, that he’s utterly relentless.  As soon as we hit the water, I’ll gladly chuck balls into the ocean for him, for a good hour.  When I feel he’s had more than his fair share, and I’ve fulfilled my part of our “understanding,” I’ll encourage him to take a drink from his orange bucket of ice water.  Then, I’ll plop down in my blue-and-white striped sand chair and take my book out of my bag.  “I’m reading now,” I’ll announce.  Kemba will stare at the tennis ball, then look up at me with those piercing black eyes.  “Uh-uh.”  I shake my head.  “Nope.  We’re done.”  He doesn’t take his eyes off the ball.  He nudges it closer to me with his snout.  “Time to relax,” I say, more firmly.  He picks the ball up in his mouth, drops it in my lap.  “Stop it!” I yell.  He picks the ball up again, and this time drops it on the pages of my open book, so there can be no misunderstanding.  I take the ball and gently lay it in the sand alongside my chair.  I try my best to concentrate on reading, or at least pretend to do so.  I stonewall Kemba’s penetrating stare.  Finally, he accepts the message.  He retreats behind my chair to the small patch of shade from my towel, digs himself a nice, cool little den, and gets comfortable.

For maybe three or four minutes.  Until a couple comes along, holding hands.  They’re walking on the hardpack, where the waves lap up and retreat.  Kemba jumps up from his “nest” as if an alarm has gone off, grabs the ball in his mouth, runs over to the walkers, drops the ball at their feet, and looks up at them expectantly.  They hesitate.  He gives them his irresistible head tilt.  They fall for it.  The guy bends over, picks up the ball, and tosses it into the water for Kemba.  Then they keep on walking.

Now they’re gone . . . but Kemba’s up again.  He trots up to me and drops the ball in my lap.  And stares at the ball.  And at me.

And on and on it goes.

Oh, and btw?  Three weeks ago I paid a visit to the Hospital for Special Surgery to take care of my right shoulder, which was aching and numb from throwing to Kemba.  And yes, one of my remedies has been to throw left-handed instead.  (See AKC blurb, above.)  And yes, now my left arm is killing me, too.

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